My life began
on December 27, 1928 in Cologne, Germany. When I was just a very young child I
was taught to say my address: “Akkrepiner Hof 4” (which I believe now to be
Aggripinaufer), just in case I should get lost. The chances of this happening
were almost non-existent since I always had a Fräulein (nanny) to watch over
me.

I was very
young when my parents and I lived in this apartment, so my memories of this, my
first home are shadowy and vague. I believe there were many rooms in the
apartment, all with high ceilings and large, tall windows, through which I would
stare on rainy days.

My parents,
Alice and Max (Markus) Rosenberg had met during a family gathering. They were
distantly related through marriage, and I was told that, when met they their
attraction for each other was instant. By the time they got married my mother
was 21 years old and my father 33. It is said that opposites attract each other
and this held true for my parents. My mother was a beautiful young girl, blonde
and blue-eyed, perhaps a bit heavier than fashionable today. My father was slim,
dark and handsome, somewhat shorter than my mother. Their temperaments were also
very different. My mother’s anger would flare up at the slightest provocation,
although the storm would blow over quickly. My father, on the other hand, was
calm and composed, but his rare outbursts of anger would be much more serious
and longer lasting.

Even my parents’
backgrounds were quite different. My mother was an only child, and from what I
have been told, her childhood was a happy one. She grew up in a small place
called Beul near Bonn where her father was a merchant and made a comfortable
living. In keeping with the times her mother stayed at home and looked after the
household and her only daughter. Like most German Jews, the family was German
first and Jewish second, and religion played a minor role, if any, in their
lives. My memories of my mother’s parents are strictly visual: my grandfather
a short heavy-set man, my grandmother a gray-haired somewhat stout lady. I saw
them rarely, and did not know them well at all. I called them Opa and Oma.

When my son
visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington some years ago he looked up
a computer register and found both my grandparents’ names. The notation next
to the names said that they had been deported first to Theresienstadt and then
to Auschwitz, where they perished.

My father’s
family was much larger. I cannot say that I knew his parents any better than my
mother’s, but I did see them more often. They lived in the same house as some
of my father’s siblings, in a town called Wächtersbach, near Frankfurt am
Main. My grandfather (Jakob), who died when I was still very young, was
wheelchair-bound, and had obviously had a stroke, but even today I can remember
him well. My grandmother (Veilchen – Violet) suffered from severe asthma, and
in order to relieve her symptoms she would breathe in the fumes from herbs that
she would burn in a small plate. In my mind’s eye I can still see her
gray-haired head bent over the plate.

The care of the
parents fell for the most part to Tante (aunt) Karolinchen, my father’s
sister, who lived with her husband Nathan in the family home. They had no
children. Another brother, Gustav and his wife Selma and their little girl
Elfriede were also part of the household. The men in the family were cattle
traders, and my father augmented their income if and when necessary.

My
Wächtersbach family was orthodox, and my parents and I would often spend the
Jewish holidays with them, which would give my cousin Elfriede and me a chance
to get to know each other. As the years went by, we became quite close, since we
were both only children.

One of my
father’s brothers was killed in the war 1914-1918, where he fought for Germany
against France. An older sister, Selma lived in a small town called Neuss with
her husband and four children. My cousins Erna and Annie eventually escaped to
England where they worked as domestics, Walter the oldest in the family went on
Alyiah to Palestine and was one of the co-founders of Kibbutz Hazoreah and Max,
the youngest, immigrated to the United States.

Their parents
were deported and killed.

When my parents
announced to their families that they had decided to get married, I assume that
the Wächtersbach family had some objections. Although my father was no longer
religious, they must have felt that marriage to a young woman from a completely
‘liberal’ family would further estrange him from the beliefs of his youth.
But the die was cast and the two got married. Their first born child was a
little boy, who died when he was only six weeks old, in 1926.

I suppose that
I must have been a rather lonely little girl in my childhood, at least it seems
so now. My companions were an assortment of young women, nannies or
Kindermädchen, whom I would call Fräulein, as I mentioned before. My mother
would spend her days much like any other well-to-do young woman, shopping and
playing bridge, while my father was at work in his paint manufacturing company,
Kölner Farbenfabrik. My mother did not do any housework or cooking during those
years in Germany.

There seemed to
have been comparatively little interaction between my parents, whom I called
Mutti (Mommy) and Vati (Daddy) and me. At times I would be allowed to say hello
and curtsey to my mother’s bridge friends. My mother would hug and kiss me in
front of them, which I remember embarrassed me. On Sundays my father would also
often play cards, a game called Skat, and he too would sometimes ask me to come
and say hello. However, always sensitive to my needs he would refrain from
showing me his affection in his friends’ company.

Another of my
early and none too pleasant memories, was the simple act of eating. In keeping
with the times I never ate with my parents but with the current Fräulein. Like
many children I had a small appetite, but since I had to eat everything that was
on my plate, it would often take me hours to finish a meal. In the worst-case
scenario my mother would insist that I finish my leftover lunch at dinner, and
only my father’s intervention would rescue me.

When I was four
years old my father became very ill. He too had been a soldier in World War I
and was imprisoned by the French shortly after the war broke out. In exchange
for learning French during his captivity he lost his health, which suddenly
manifested itself in 1932. The first diagnosis was diabetes, and as if this were
not enough, he was somewhat later found to be suffering from tuberculosis as
well. Now I saw my parents even less. They traveled frequently to Switzerland,
where the air was said to be good for my father. Sometimes I would join them
there with the nanny. During the next few years my father had several very
serious operations and my mother never left his side. When his health permitted
it, my parents would go on business trips, mainly to Scandinavia. Without my
mother’s constant and devoted care and attention my father would undoubtedly
have succumbed to his illnesses even more prematurely than he ultimately did.

My father’s
illness had a profound impact on me. From early childhood on and for years to
come I shared my mother’s anxiety and worries. I was no doubt a very quiet
little girl, always taking care not to disturb the gentle, loving man who was my
Vati. A smile and a kiss from him made it all worth while - I loved him so.

But life was
never the same again. The rhythm of our family life always depended on my father’s
state of health. There were also other serious changes on the horizon. As we
know, Hitler came to power in 1933, and although this event had little impact,
if any, on our lives then, it would not be long until we began to feel the
consequences of the political upheaval.

When I was six
years old, I was enrolled into a neighborhood school. An old photo in my mother’s
album shows me on my first day of school: A rather ordinary looking, smiling
little girl with brown short hair, proudly displaying a colorful cone-shaped bag
filled with candies. At the time every first-grader was handed such a bag upon
leaving school the first day.

Before school
started the following year, I knew that something very fundamental had changed
in my life. I became aware that to be Jewish was to be different, when I had to
attend the Cologne Jewish school rather than my old school nearby. It turned out
to be a very good change. I loved my teacher, who not only taught us reading,
writing and arithmetic but also Ivrit, which opened a whole new world for me. My
schoolmates came from all over the city and I formed many new friendships, but
it was Vera who became my best friend. As far as I can remember our parents were
friendly too, and we were able to see each after school as well. Vera ultimately
immigrated to the United States with her parents, got married at an early age
and unfortunately contracted polio shortly afterwards. She was in a wheelchair
for the rest of her life and died many years ago.

Around
1934-1935 we moved into a new house on Marienburgerstrasse 52, a beautiful tree
lined street. Of course I cannot remember how many rooms this house had, but
there were several living rooms, a large kitchen and several bedrooms upstairs.
One of the downstairs rooms led out to a lovely garden with a fountain.
Adjoining the service entrance was a dog kennel that ultimately housed a German
shepherd dog, perhaps some kind of guard dog, I do not know.

In retrospect I
wonder at my parents’ decision to buy this home at a time of considerable
political unrest in Germany. The fact is that this house on Marienburgerstrasse
52 was my father’s dream house. Often he and I would walk in the garden and
sit down on a bench and have a quiet conversation – just the two of us.

‘Our’
house, although it was not ‘ours’ any more by then, survived the war which
was a miracle. Cologne was bombed extensively by the allies, but
Marienburgerstrasse 52 only sustained minor damage. Many years later my husband
Steve and I traveled with a tour bus through much of Europe. We chose this
particular tour because it would visit Cologne (Köln am Rhein), and while our
fellow travelers visited the Dome, we went to Marienburgerstrasse by taxi. A
lady, who turned out to be the house sitter while its owners were in America,
let us in after I told her that I had once lived in this house, without
mentioning dates or times. With the passage of time the kitchen had ‘shrunk’
and so had the garden and there were many more and smaller rooms than I
remembered, partly due to the fact that several families had lived in this house
after the war, when the housing shortage in Cologne was severe. My visit to the
house where I had lived so many years before was, needless to say, a difficult
experience, yet I am glad I had this opportunity.

One day a big
surprise awaited me. My father took me outside to the dog kennel, where a large
cardboard box was standing in one corner. Squeaking noises came from inside the
box, and I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the beautiful little
black-haired puppies crawling on top of each other. Where had they come from? I
was thrilled and wanted to keep them all, but of course they had to be given
away.

By now we had
several servants, one of them a cook. The Fräulein, who occupied the room next
to mine at the time, was Jewish and the nicest nanny I ever had. She would also
be my last.

During the next
few years there were still holiday trips to Italy with my parents and Fräulein,
and my mother and father continued to travel on business. My father’s health
remained frail but manageable. One year a whooping cough epidemic broke out in
Cologne, and because the doctor thought I had a mild case of the illness, I was
immediately dispatched, together with my nanny, to a region in Germany called
Schwarzwald, where the air was supposed to be good for my cough. I can still
recall our walks through the woods with their wonderful odor of pine trees.

Ever since I
changed schools I had come to realize that there was a certain stigma to being
Jewish. I also overheard conversations between my parents about Hitler and the
anti-Semitism he preached, even though they did not yet believe that this had
anything to do with them. As my father once told me: “Unsere Familie hat hier
in Deutschland seit dem sechzehnten Jahrhundert gelebt” (Our family has lived
in Germany since the 1600’s), so this could not possibly concern them. He had
even received the Iron Cross for bravery during World War I, and our home and
business were in Germany. But more and more often Hitler’s voice would be
heard on the radio and nothing upset my father more than his ranting and raving,
for the most part directed against us Jews.

Our house and
garden were set back from the street and a low wall surrounded our property. One
day, when I was in the garden playing by myself, a gang of young people gathered
outside and started throwing rocks over the wall. When my father appeared, they
ran off. That day in 1937 my childhood came to an end, and nothing was ever the
same. I was never again allowed to leave our house unaccompanied, and my sense
of security was forever gone.

My parents too
considered this incident extremely serious. Our home had been violated, and
today I am absolutely certain that had we been able to leave Germany just then,
we would have. But stringent laws had been passed prohibiting Jews from
emigrating from Germany, and just as stringent were the laws and quota systems
imposed in most countries banning Jewish immigration. My father’s medical
history further complicated our situation.

My favorite
Fräulein left, I believe, in 1937. I remember saying a tearful good-bye to her,
feeling that my world was truly collapsing. But then – a big surprise. My
cousin Erna, my father’s sister’s daughter, joined our household, and she
became my all time favorite companion. Erna was eleven years older than I, a
young woman with a sweet disposition, who was always ready to pay attention to
me. She was pretty, with fine features and beautiful curly hair. What I remember
best is that she called me “Gritchen”, which I loved enough to remember
after all these years.

Erna, together
with her older sister Annie, left for England in 1938. At the time England
admitted young Jewish women only with the proviso that they work there as
domestics, which both my cousins did until the end of the War. By then they had
earned their permanent residency in England. Annie remained in England all her
life, married an Englishman, had a daughter Sylvia, and ultimately died in
England. At the end of the war Erna went back to Germany as an interpreter for
the Allied forces. Here she met her future husband Erwin, also a German Jew, and
together they settled in Birmingham, England.

In 1938, for
reasons which I have never understood, my parents decided to travel one more
time on a short vacation to Italy, this time with me. Letters had reached them
from the family in Wächtersbach indicating that anti-Semitic incidents had
increased alarmingly. My father feared for their safety and on our way back from
Italy to Cologne, we stopped in Waechtersbach. That very night, shortly after my
grandmother, Elfriede and I had gone to bed, we heard the now familiar sounds of
broken glass. I was terrified. An unruly mob had gathered outside our windows,
most likely because they were aware of our presence. The stone bombardment
continued for several hours. Almost every window in the house was shattered, and
when the following morning a piece of glass was found in my grandmother’s bed,
it was obvious that the time for decisions had come.

This is how it
happened that our whole family traveled back to Cologne by train the following
morning. My uncles and aunts had packed only what was absolutely necessary. In
retrospect I realize that this decision must have been extremely traumatic for
everyone, except for Elfriede and me. I was so excited about the prospect of
living in the same house as my cousin, that nothing else mattered at the time,
and for Elfriede too this seemed nothing but a wonderful new adventure.

The reason for
this move was that the bigger cities were considered safer than the villages and
towns. There were fewer Jews living in the smaller places, which made them more
vulnerable, and my parents felt that the family would be safer in Cologne than
in the small town that had been their home.

No doubt the
next few months were difficult for all the adults in our house. My mother was
not used to life with a big family, and all the maids had left because,
according to Hitler’s new laws, they could no longer remain in Jewish employ.
My aunts were used to doing their own housework and took care of everything, and
I remember well how we all ate together around a large table in the dining room.
This was a welcome change for me, who was used to having my meals with only my Fraeulein, and for the first time in my life no one paid any attention to how
much or how little I ate. Elfriede and I attended school as if everything was
normal, and the time we spent together in Cologne so long ago has kept us close
throughout our lives.

It was now 1938
and for all of us the situation became more precarious each day. Uncle Gustav
had applied for an immigration visa to the United States earlier on and expected
to hear from the American Consulate daily. Tante Selma’s brother lived in
Bridgeport, Connecticut and it was he who had acted as guarantor for his sister
and her family. Without such a guarantor it was virtually impossible to obtain a
visa to the States then.

By September
1938 my parents had become very nervous. My father was not strong enough
physically to deal effectively with the major problems facing us all, and it was
my mother’s decision that she and Vati go on one more business trip, albeit
this time with a different purpose – to look for a country in which we could
find refuge. It was still possible to leave Germany for short periods of time.
My parents decided to bring along the chemical formulas for my father’s own
particular brand of house paint, in order to exchange them for possible
employment. In my mind’s eye I can still see the slim volumes in black binding
that contained probably his most valuable assets at the time. Smuggling the
formulas out of the country was dangerous, but my parents had no choice, and
fortunately they succeeded.

Cologne was
just then in the grip of a polio epidemic, and schools were closed. At dinner
the evening before my parents were supposed to leave, I suddenly burst into
tears and told them that this time I did not want to be left behind, ostensibly
because of the polio epidemic. In truth, there were other reasons too why I
could not bear to be separated from my parents then. I did not really know my
aunts and uncles too well, and they were ‘different’, and a tight knit
family, whereas I felt like an outsider. The entire situation in our household
was very unusual and strange. And - being a rather perceptive and grown up
little girl, I knew that life in Germany was becoming more dangerous with each
day, and I worried that I might never see my parents again.

This was a most
unusual behavior for the docile little girl that had been left behind on many
occasions with only a nanny as company. I suppose my display of emotion at a
time like this impressed upon my parents that it would not be wise to leave me
behind, although our destination was still completely unknown. Since my father
had business connections in Brussels, this would be our first stop, and the
following morning we boarded a train with the hope that Belgium would be the
country where we would be able to find our new home. Little did I know that I
would not return to Cologne, and that I would never again see my grandmother,
Tante Karolinchen and Onkel Nathan. My grandmother died in Cologne in 1940 and
is buried there.

Tante
Karolinchen and Onkel Nathan were deported to Theresienstadt and then to
Auschwitz, from where they never returned.

Brussels
– My First “Cruise”

Despite the
fact that I left the country of my birth more than a lifetime ago, in my heart I
know that the little German Jewish girl I was, still lives deep inside me. My
life’s journey has taken me to several countries, but if truth be told I do
not feel that any of them is my own. Germany was the country in which I only
happened to be born, but when I hear certain Lieder (songs) or German
expressions that remind me of my childhood I feel an unexplainable sadness. At
times I have been called a ‘Jecke’, a less than flattering expression for a
German Jew, because of certain traits I have always had – hardworking,
organized etc. True, they are German characteristics, but in my case they are my
father’s legacy.

It soon became
apparent that there were no business opportunities for my father in Belgium, and
my parents decided to continue on to Scandinavia where he was well known. But
there was a major problem. Taking me along on a journey such as this was out of
the question. My father needed all of my mother’s attention and care and I
would simply be an additional burden.

My parents had
met the Nussbaum family while they were still living in Germany. The Nussbaums
had since been able to leave and had settled in Brussels. A quick solution to
our problem had to be found, and my parents got in touch with Herr (Mr.) and
Frau (Mrs.) Nussbaum to inquire if they could possibly look after me until such
a time that our situation had resolved itself. They agreed. In retrospect I
assume that the Nussbaums were well paid for their efforts. After all, they too
were refugees, and the extra income was most likely welcome. This was the first
time that my parents had to make a most unusual decision that concerned me –
to leave me in the hands of virtual strangers. It would by no means be the last
time that I was put to the test.

Instead of
being with family in Cologne I now ended up with perfect strangers in Brussels,
but I quickly adjusted to my new life and soon came to love it. The Nussbaums
were an extraordinary family, and nothing like mine. They had three children, a
boy older than I, a little girl younger, and a small baby, whose gender I do not
remember. Frau Nussbaum was in the early stages of another pregnancy, which none
of the children including myself were aware of. They were a warm close-knit
orthodox (Jewish) family, where Friday evenings and Shabbat as well as the
holidays were strictly observed, and I loved being part of their lives.

I can recall
that the Nussbaum apartment was beautifully furnished. Persian carpets covered
the floors of the living room and dining room. A piano stood in the corner of
the living room. In all likelihood the Nussbaums had left Germany early enough
to take with them some of their belongings.

I did not go to
school during the three months I stayed in Brussels, but I managed to learn some
French - exactly how I do not remember - and spent my days with Frau Nussbaum
and the younger children. Frau Nussbaum was a wonderfully patient mother, who
obviously enjoyed spending time with us children. She would read to us, play
simple little melodies on the piano and take us for walks, while Herr Nussbaum
was at work. I did not want to think of the day that I would have to leave my
new ‘family’.

In the meantime
my parents had visited Sweden and Denmark without any luck. But all that would
change when they came to Oslo, Norway. My father contacted Nordiske
Destillationsverker, a fairly large company and a customer of Kölner
Farbenfabrik, and offered them his paint formulas in exchange for a position.
The people at Nordiske obviously recognized the value of such a proposal, and my
father was promised the position of director of their new paint manufacturing
division. Proof of employment guaranteed a work permit for my father and
Norwegian immigration visas for both my parents, and with these documents in
hand they returned briefly to Germany to try to salvage some household goods,
with which to begin our lives in Norway. The family was still living in our
house on Marienburgerstrasse, and it must have been unimaginable painful for my
parents to say good-bye to them, not knowing what the future held in store for
any of us.

As soon as they
were able to, my parents rented a tiny furnished apartment at Kirkeveien 104 in
Oslo, consisting of a living room with a bed that folded into the wall (Murphy
bed), a bedroom, kitchen and bath. Vati started his new career and so did my
mother – housekeeping. It was very difficult for her, since in all her
thirty-six years she had never done anything of the sort. Moreover, she was in a
foreign country. True, she had been there many times before, but always as a
guest in hotels or in people’s homes, and even the language, although it was
familiar, was strange once she had to use it on a daily basis. My father adapted
quickly to his new surroundings. His colleagues were supportive, and it did not
take long for the new paint division to prosper under my father’s leadership.

But I was still
in Belgium. Although my father applied for my immigration visa as quickly as he
was able to, it took much longer than expected to receive this document. Even
then it was unheard of to keep a child separated from his/her parents for any
length of time for lack of a visa, but one of the Norwegian immigration
officials was rumored to be a Nazi and he caused one delay after another.
Finally, in late December 1938 the visa arrived.

As soon as I
received my ticket for the crossing to Oslo, Herr Nussbaum began looking for
someone who was scheduled to sail to Norway on the same ship as I, and who would
be willing to keep an eye on me during the trip. Herr Stern, a middle-aged
German Jewish business man fit the bill, that is at least he was booked on the
same ship as I. That he seemed to have little or no experience with young
children was another matter.

It was a sad
little girl that parted from the Nussbaums in early January 1939. They left me
at the pier in the care of Herr Stern and the two of us boarded the ship that
would take us to Norway. I remember very little of our voyage, except that I was
lonely and frightened. Herr Stern’s cabin was on a different deck than mine,
so he would check on me once or twice a day, and the rest of the day I would
mostly stay in my cabin reading. On the second day of our trip I ventured on
deck to look up Herr Stern in his cabin. The wind was blowing and I struggled
with the door leading to a different part of the ship. I could not open it, but
another passenger came to my rescue and then addressed me in a language I did
not know. Fortunately I did not get seasick. On the third day we arrived in
Oslo.

It was a cold,
dark winter day, such as you find in the North in mid winter. I was nervous and
apprehensive. Not only was I arriving in a new country, but I knew that my life
with my parents would be very different than it had been until now. They had
told me that we were ‘poor’ now, so I was wondering what that meant. It
would be the very first time for the three of us to live by ourselves, without
servants or relatives. Would Mutti still be impatient with me? What would school
be like in Norway? A million thoughts whirred through my head while I looked for
my parents as the ship approached the wharf.

Finally I saw
them, bundled up in their winter clothes, eagerly looking for me. A great
feeling of relief surged through me. Everything would be all right.

At first my
life in Norway was totally confusing. Everything was different than what I had
been accustomed to. I slept on the Murphy bed in the living room, instead of in
my own room. My mother went food shopping and cooked and cleaned, and when
walking on the streets of Oslo I heard a language of which I did not understand
one word.

It was
imperative that I start school as soon as possible, since I had missed more than
four months already. So a few days after I arrived in Oslo my mother took me to
a neighborhood school and tried as best she could to explain the situation to
the principal. It was suggested that I start 4th grade, which in fact was the
right grade for my age (10). I would just listen in the beginning and do as much
homework as I could. The principal assured my mother that I would learn the
language in no time at all, because I was still very young. Little did he know
how quickly I would speak and act like any other Norwegian little girl! At the
same time I was enrolled in Cheder, after school Jewish classes. Here I met
Jewish children my age, and one of them, Celia Century, became my lifelong
friend.

My first day of
school was quite an event. All the girls in the class wanted to be my friend, I
was a celebrity, a girl who could not speak their language. But it was Else who
became my ‘best friend’. She would come to our apartment every afternoon, we
would do our homework together, and since there was no other way out, I had to
try to speak to her in Norwegian. That was the whole idea of course, and with
Else’s encouragement it took only about three months until I was able to speak
Norwegian perfectly, without a trace of an accent. It was not long before I
refused to speak German to my parents in public, such as on streetcars, in
stores etc. I was doing well in school, and was soon a better student than my
mentor Else.

On their many
business trips to Norway my parents had befriended the Meiranovsky family. Now
that we were settled the Meiranovskys, despite their age difference, became my
parents’ closest friends. Moritz and Rosa Meiranovsky had five sons, who at
the time were already all grown up. One son, Elias, lived in the United States,
four sons lived in Oslo, of whom two were married. The youngest, Sigmund, was
nineteen years old, and he was my hero. To Sigmund I was the little sister he
never had, and he was very proud of me, mainly because of my ‘scholastic
achievements’. He taught me how to ski and to hike in the mountainous areas
around Oslo. I also became very close to his brother John who had recently
married Beks. They lived in a lovely new apartment, and I was always welcome in
their home.

The elder
Meieranovskys were deported to Auschwitz together with two of their sons and
their families. All perished in the camp. Sigmund’s is a long story. Suffice
it to say that he left Oslo on April 11, and joined the Norwegian army in an as
yet unoccupied area. It was not long until they too had to surrender to the
Germans. Sigmund escaped to Sweden, from where he made his way to the United
States. Ultimately he decided to get into the fight against the Germans again
and went to Toronto, where he joined a contingent of Norwegians who were
training to become airmen at a place called “Little Norway”. Upon completion
of their training, the airmen went to England, from where they flew bombing
missions over Germany. Sigmund was shot down and taken prisoner of war. He
managed to hide the fact that he was Jewish and tried to escape numerous times,
unfortunately with little success. After liberation he returned to Norway for a
short while and then immigrated to the United States. John and Beks fled to
Sweden, where their only child, Rene, was born in 1944. They returned to Oslo
after the war.

The
Meiranovskys introduced me to an entirely new language – Yiddish, a language
spoken by mostly East European Jews. The majority of the Jews in Norway (only
about 1000 souls) had originally come from East European countries, and the
older generation still spoke Yiddish at home. Yiddish is a colorful, expressive
and melodious language which was rarely, if ever, heard in Germany at the time.

The descendants
of Rosa and Moritz Meiranovsky (changed to Meieran) played a very important role
in my life. After the war Beks and John were our closest friends, and when I got
married this friendship continued and included my husband. John died in his
forties, but I never lost contact with Beks as long as she lived. We wrote
letters to each other regularly and I visited her many, many times. When she was
no longer able to write, in her eighties, I continued to send her news about my
family and called her once a month at least. I know she treasured my letters and
would read them over and over again. The last time I saw her was in 2002 on her
90th birthday. She died in December that year. Sigmund too has been part of my
life. Our correspondence has died down, simply because he no longer likes to
write, and he does not own a computer. Beks’ daughter Renė has taken over
where her mother left off. We e-mail each other frequently and I am happy that
she too feels that there is a special bond between our two families.

I cannot recall
too much of the summer of 1939, my first summer in Norway, other than that it
was a calm and quite carefree time – at least for me. We moved into a larger
apartment in an adjoining building on Kirkeveien, and now I had a room all to
myself. My mother, although losing her patience with me ever so often, seemed to
adjust quite well. My father’s health was better than it had been for a long
time, despite the fact that he still had a festering wound in his back, which
refused to heal because of his diabetes. No one knew about this problem except
the family doctor, my mother and I. The wound needed a new dressing every day,
and my mother tirelessly took care of it.

The days were
long and bright, and for a ten-year old girl there was always something to do. I
played hopscotch with my friends on the sidewalk outside our building and often
went to see our new neighbor, Fru (Mrs.) Prager, when she was at home. Herr and
Fru Prager who were Jewish, were in their late fifties, childless, and seemed to
enjoy my visits. During the day Fru Prager often helped out in her mother’s
candy store. Beks and John lived very close by, and I would walk over to their
apartment on a late afternoon to say hallo. On Sundays we would sometimes take
the ferry to Bygdoy, a peninsula in the Oslo Fjord to go swimming. That was the
highlight of the week.

In the fall of
1939 I began grade 5 and felt quite grown-up. Norwegian newspapers and radio
broadcasts were full of news about the war in Europe. But it was far away, and
did not concern me – or so I thought. My parents were in constant touch by
letters with the family in Cologne. They were still living in the house on
Marienburgerstrasse and Onkel

Gustav was
still waiting for his visa. Realizing the danger that the family was in, my
mother urged my aunt and uncle to let Elfriede come to Norway, while they waited
for their visa. This was an extremely difficult decision for Onkel Gustav and
Tante Selma. It was one thing to part from your only child for a few months,
knowing that you would see each other again, but quite another to send your
daughter off all by herself, while you were unable to leave, and did not know
what lay ahead.

But in the end,
late in 1939, Elfriede too arrived in Oslo by ship, all by herself as I had
before her. The coming months were not easy for her. Although happy to be with
me, she was often homesick for her parents. She did not start school, because my
parents hoped that my aunt and uncle would receive their visa soon and come to
Norway to pick up Elfriede on their way to the United States. It would be more
than three months.

By early April
the threat of war was palpable even in Norway. Almost by a miracle Tante Selma
and Onkel Gustav had received their visa and came to Oslo. We were happy finally
to be together again, but we knew it could not last. By then both Elfriede and I
were eleven years old and understood that a long separation might be ahead of
us. The day of departure came all too soon. The evening before my uncle and my
father were inconsolable. They had always been very close and they feared that
they would never meet again.

The following
morning, I believe it was April 4, 1940 we accompanied my aunt and uncle and
Elfriede to the ship. They went onboard only to be told that they would have to
disembark and take a train to Bergen, where the ship would meet them. No
explanation was given. What could this mean? That evening we were all upset and
apprehensive and after a sleepless night we said our goodbyes once again at the
train station and they left. Despite the delay they managed to get away in time.

Four days later
the war broke out in Norway.

War
and Occupation.

By April 8,
1940 my father did not doubt that a German attack on Norway was imminent. Before
going to work that morning he asked my mother to go to our bank and withdraw a
considerable amount of money in order to be prepared for any eventuality.
However, my mother decided to postpone the banking to the following day because
she had other plans, a decision that would prove to have very serious
consequences.

Norway was ill
prepared for an attack. There were no bomb shelters to speak of, and the air
raid sirens that woke us in the middle of the following night caught the
population of Oslo by surprise. Although my father knew that the makeshift bomb
shelter in our building would not protect us should there be a direct hit, he
nevertheless insisted that we join the other residents in the basement. It was
dark and crowded in the relatively small room, and everyone was nervous and
frightened. Now there could no longer be any doubt – our peace had been short
lived. What would become of us? Where could we go?

One thing my
father knew with absolute certainty: we had to get away. During the past year he
had on two occasions ‘visited’ the German consulate. I am not sure why, but
I know that while he was there he had lost his temper both times. No doubt our
name was blacklisted at the consulate and we could be easily located. Besides,
we were former German citizens, albeit declared ‘stateless’ by now,
(citizens of no country), and therefore even more vulnerable.

In the cellar
during the air raid my father had formulated a vague plan: he would get in touch
with someone at Nordiske and prevail upon him to drive us out of the city. As
soon as the ‘all clear’ signal sounded, we went upstairs, my father made his
phone call and actually reached one of the salesmen at the company, and we
started packing. Most importantly, we had to be sure to take with us an adequate
supply of insulin and syringes for my father, who injected himself with insulin
two or three times a day. We packed only a few pieces of clothing for each of
us, since we had no idea of how we would travel, for how long and where we would
end up.

While waiting
for my father’s colleague my parents realized that, added to all our other
problems, there was also the lack of funds. Despite the early hour my mother
rang Mr. & Mrs. Prager’s doorbell, and they were able to lend us a few
hundred kroner, which was not a large sum of money and did little to alleviate
my father’s concerns. I can only guess what my mother felt.

It was still
early morning when my father’s colleague arrived in his little car. War was in
the air, and many people had already taken to the roads leading to the country
side, where it was felt to be safer. In Oslo there had been no snow, but when we
got further away from the city, it became apparent that winter had not lost its
grip. The lakes were still frozen, there were icy patches on the road, and we
were heading further and further into a frozen landscape. After a couple of
hours’ drive the car stopped at an inn. My father’s co-worker told us that
he had to return to Oslo now to look after his own family. He had done us an
enormous favor under difficult circumstances and we were forever grateful to
him.

We spent the
rest of the day at the country inn, which gradually filled to capacity. Everyone
spoke to everyone else, of course about the war. My parents realized soon that
the other people in the dayroom had noticed us and begun to wonder about us. Not
only were we foreigners, but my parents’ accent betrayed our origin. In a
country that was under attack by the Germans, this was a most undesirable
position to be in. So my father decided that he had better tell the truth about
us, who and what we were, and that we were in urgent need of a safe place to
stay.

As I mentioned
before, there were only about 1000 Jewish people in Norway at the time, and many
Norwegians that we encountered then and later on during the war had never even
met a Jew. But in the tense atmosphere of the little inn people did understand
our plight and a man came forward and told us that he knew of an electrician in
a remote village who might be willing to take us in to augment his income. The
name of the village was Rogne located in the Valdres region.

We had never
heard of this area, but now we had a destination, a goal, although we did not
know the outcome of our search. However, the following day we were able to get
rides on a truck, a milk wagon and a horse and carriage, until late in the day
we arrived in Rogne. The electrician, Nils Granli and his wife Alma, were well
known in the village and soon we had made our way to their house. A steep dirt
road led up to a comfortable looking green painted house above the highway.

Alma had
obviously seen our approach through the window and opened the door before we
even had a chance to knock. When we told her that we had regards from one of
Nils’ customers, she immediately let us in.

At the time
Nils was approximately forty-five years old. Alma was a few years his junior and
they had a little girl, then about a year and a half. We never found out how
this lovely, cultured woman ended up in a remote place like Rogne and married to
Nils. She had been a governess in France when she was younger, and she was
surprised and delighted when she heard that my father spoke French too. The
common language immediately forged a bond between the two of them.

We told the
Granlis who and what we were, yet both Nils and Alma readily agreed to rent us a
room in their house with kitchen privileges. I don’t think that they quite
realized how dangerous to them our presence in their home might ultimately
become. Nils did understand, however that our situation warranted the protection
of the policeman (lensmann) in the village, whom he considered completely
trustworthy. He went to see him immediately and returned with the assurance that
indeed the lensmann would not give us away, and that he would do everything in
his power to protect us. We had no choice but trust his judgment.

Alma’s life
was a difficult one. As we discovered somewhat later, Nils was an alcoholic,
with the unpredictable temper and behavior of the addicted person. When he drank
we would keep away from him, but Alma had no such escape. For this reason I
believe that our presence in their home might have been somewhat of a comfort to
Alma and a distraction from her worries. Nils and Alma were not farmers, but
kept a cow and a pig in the barn adjacent to their house. The cow supplied our
milk and each Christmas a pig was slaughtered and a new one arrived. There was
never any shortage of food in their household.

That night we
gathered around the radio and listened to the news. The war was raging on
several fronts, but it seemed to us that the situation was desperate and that it
would not be long until Norway too would be under Hitler’s rule.

The following
day brought the war close to Rogne. Around noon the air raid siren sounded in
the village, and neighbors and friends ran into the dense forest close to ‘our’
house, which had to serve as a shelter. Suddenly overhead an airplane appeared,
and before we realized fully what was happening, the sound of gunfire tore
through the air. I looked up for a minute and saw to my horror the face of the
German pilot, so low was he flying. And just as suddenly I was lying on the
ground with my father’s body protecting me, while he ordered everyone else to
lie down wherever they were. By some miracle only one person was injured. That
day my father became my hero forever, and he gained the respect of all the
people that were with us in the forest.

Somewhat later
that day my parents went for a walk along the highway. A German plane flew
overhead and when the pilot saw them he began shooting. Only my father’s
presence of mind saved their lives; they both jumped into the ditch next to the
highway and escaped injury.

That night some
friends and neighbors of the Granlis suggested that we all move to an area
higher up in the mountains. Equipped with knapsacks filled with provisions, we
set out during the night and walked for miles through the deep snow. Besides all
our other concerns my mother and I worried and wondered if my father would be
able to keep up the pace. But as usual, Vati did not complain and eventually we
all reached our destination, a small cabin, where we spent the rest of the night
and part of the next day. Then word reached us that the fighting in Norway was
over and that the Norwegians had capitulated. We all returned to Rogne.

Now that the
fighting was officially over I was allowed to play with the other children on
the road below the Granli house. This road was also the main highway in the
area. I did not quite understand the dialect of the region, ‘new Norwegian’,
but the games children play are the same everywhere, and after the tension of
the last week it felt wonderful to run around with my new playmates. Schools
were still closed because of the war, although the German occupation was now a
fact.

A few days
later, on a balmy spring day with the sun melting the snow on the road, I was
again playing with my friends on the road. Suddenly a jeep with four German
officers approached. Imagine my horror when they stopped and asked me in German
for directions to the Policeman in the village. German was my mother tongue,
which I spoke with my parents every day. But now it was spoken by the enemy, and
I knew that if I answered in German the officers would immediately become
suspicious. How could a little girl in a mountain village speak German so well?
With my heart almost jumping out of my chest I pretended not to understand and
they drove off. I think those few minutes ended my childhood, although I was
just a little 11-year old girl. All I could think of in that moment was to tell
my parents what had happened and I ran up the hill to the house.

A few days
later the lensmann paid us a visit. He reiterated what Nils had already told us,
that we would be quite safe in Rogne and that we would have nothing to fear from
the villagers in the area. He did not know of anyone who had ever met a Jewish
person, let alone was a Nazi. No one here would understand our particular
situation. As far as he was concerned, he had no intentions of becoming a
collaborator, and he would give us ample warning should the situation warrant
it. We agreed with Nils that the lensmann could be trusted, and in fact he was.
Unfortunately for him, he made a very unwise decision a few years later – he
joined the Nazi party. His reasoning was that if he did not join the Party, the
occupation forces would remove him and appoint a real Nazi to his position,
which would be much worse for the villagers. What he had not realized was that
in his capacity he would at times have to arrest people, and even his own
personal friends, who were known to be anti-Nazi, in this case mostly teachers.
This caused him to be treated like any other war criminal after the war, and he
was ultimately brought to trial. My parents were called as witnesses for the
defense and he was not imprisoned, but his life was ruined just the same. He had
lost face.

Although the
village school re-opened shortly after this incident, my parents worried that it
would be too dangerous for us if they allowed me go to school. So for me grade 5
lasted from August 1939 until April 8, 1940. I missed going to school with the
other children. At this point all I wanted was to be like everyone else. But of
course I was not.

Our most
serious immediate problem was the lack of money. Nils and Alma deserved to get
paid, and we needed money to buy groceries. It soon became apparent that
something had to be done, since no one could foresee how long the occupation
would last. My parents were faced with a most serious decision. One of us had to
return to Oslo to withdraw our savings. My father was completely ruled out,
because of his dark hair and prominent ‘Jewish’ nose. He would be much too
conspicuous. My mother did not look like a foreigner with her blond hair and
blue eyes, but as I mentioned before, she as well as my father spoke Norwegian
with a German accent. Should she fall into the hands of a Norwegian policeman,
he might consider her the enemy and treat her accordingly. An encounter with a
German would have disastrous results. This only left me. I have often wondered
how my parents could send their only child on such a mission. Was it
desperation? My answer is yes, it must have been, because surely they both knew
that I might not succeed, and worse yet that I might never return.

A truck driver
was found who had to drive to Oslo and back the following day. Equipped with a
Power of Attorney for Mrs. Prager (our neighbor) and the telephone number of
Nordiske Destillationsverker I climbed into the cab with the driver. We traveled
in complete silence, mainly I suppose because the driver did not quite know what
to say to me. Also, both of us worried about being stopped on the road. What was
he doing with a little girl without any kind of identification? When he let me
off on Kirkeveien I was greatly relieved. My parents had advised Mrs. Prager
that I was coming to Oslo, so she was waiting for me in her apartment. We did
not lose any time and headed for the neighborhood bank immediately. I was
nervous and fearful when we entered the bank and I was sure everyone could hear
the loud pounding of my heart. I need not have worried. Mrs. Prager gave the
bank clerk the Power of Attorney and we withdrew our savings without any
difficulties.

Later that day
Mrs. Prager told me that my father’s intuition had been right; a few days
after the takeover two Germans in civilian clothes had come to our apartment to
look for us. When they did not find anyone there, they asked some of the
neighbors if they knew where we were, which they did not. The Pragers had not
been at home at the time.

Mrs. Prager
phoned Nordiske to advise them of our whereabouts. My father’s colleagues were
relieved when they heard that we were safe. Subsequently, throughout the next
almost three years that we spent in hiding in Rogne my father’s co-workers
would take turns coming to see us, always bringing enough money until the next
visit. Although we needed this money desperately, my father always felt
embarrassed when the envelope was handed to him. How would he ever repay
Nordiske? His colleagues insisted, however, that these moneys were mere
royalties derived from his formulas - and his due. No doubt the generosity of
Nordiske Destillationsverker was instrumental in saving our lives.

In May 1940 the
lensmann came to see us again, this time with the news that he had received
directives from the occupation forces that every person in his area had to be
registered and issued identification papers. Since this posed a certain danger
to us, he suggested that we move to the mountain range above Rogne for the
summer. It would be safer there and by the time we returned in the fall no one
would be looking for people to register – at least this is what he hoped.

The Norwegian
farmers move with their cattle to the mountains above their villages during the
summer months. Here the cows and the goats graze freely on the lush mountain
grass in the higher elevations. These little mountain villages were and are
still called ‘seter’ and they consisted mainly of small primitive cabins
without electricity or other amenities.

We had heard of
a nice log cabin at a ‘seter’ called Buahaugen that was for rent, and one
fine day in June Nils drove us there in his truck. Like all the other cabins
ours was without running water or electricity and there was an outhouse behind
the cabin. Buahaugen lay above the tree line, which meant that only low bushes
were growing there with just an occasional small birch tree. The cabin was
overlooking two lakes, the Vannsjoe and the Royri, which were joined by a brook
and surrounded by mountains. All that had changed when in 1994 I returned to
Buahaugen for the first time in fifty years, even the ecology. Veritable forests
of birch trees surround cottages that have sprung up and that belong mainly to
city dwellers. Now only a few farmers bring their cattle up to Buahaugen, other
‘seters’ are found to be more convenient. Many of the cabins and cottages
still have no electricity, but complicated installations are providing running
water to most of the summer homes and electricity has been promised for the near
future. Buahaugen has become a popular summer and spring skiing resort of sorts
and is easily accessible from the highway that goes to Rogne, only about 20
minutes by car. In the winter the gravel road from Rogne is closed.

In the
beginning we were almost alone up there, but towards the middle of June the
farmers began moving up and we were glad to have people around. Living at the
‘seter’ was not easy and our whole lifestyle changed dramatically. We had to
fetch water from the brook - fresh and cold water – which my mother and I did.
My father cut the wood for heating and cooking. Who in Germany would ever have
believed that he would be able to do such physical hard work ever again? By some
miracle he felt really well in the fresh mountain air, although the sore in his
back never healed. Fortunately we were able to get his insulin from an
apothecary in Fagernes, a small town not far from Rogne, who sent the
preparation to Nils Granli at regular intervals. Exactly how this had been
arranged I do not remember.

We were very
fortunate to be able to spend the summer months at Buahaugen. It was a quiet,
tranquil life. Each morning we were awoken by the tinkle of cow bells as the
cows were led out to their pastures. A young girl, Martha, who became one of my
best friends at the ‘seter’ delivered fresh milk every morning. I played on
the rocks at the water’s edge with all the other children, and sometimes in
real hot weather we went swimming in the ice cold lakes. We watched the women
make goat cheese in huge black kettles, and when they were finished we scraped
the kettles clean. This was a delicacy. Midsummer night we would feast on ‘roemmegroet’,
a type of porridge made from sour cream. I cannot possibly describe its
wonderful taste. We would climb the mountain above Buahaugen and pick
blueberries later in the summer and cloudberries, yellow berries that resemble
raspberries but taste completely differently. The women made jam and the
cloudberries were mixed with whipped cream for Sunday desert.

My parents
learnt to fish for trout and other kinds of fish in the lake. They would fish
from a row boat, and on balmy summer evenings the three of us would take our
fishing rods to the large stones protruding into the lakes, and fish for smaller
fish from there. Together with a neighbor my father built a makeshift oven of
rocks outside our cabin, in which he smoked some of the trout he caught, and my
mother would store some of this fish for the winter months ahead. We were never
short on food. On my trip to Buahaugen in 1994 I could still see the remnants of
the primitive oven in the underbrush near the steps of our burnt-down cottage.
During a raid in the summer of 1943 the Germans set fire to all the cabins in Buahaugen.

In the fall of
1940 we had no other choice but move back to Rogne and Nils and Alma. Despite
the inconveniences of living in a primitive log cabin, we had been more
comfortable there. I had my own bedroom, we had a spacious living room and
kitchen, and it was difficult getting used to the one room we shared at the
Granlis. It was, however, impossible to stay at the ‘seter’ in the winter
because of the snow, the difficulty in getting provisions, and last but not
least the utter isolation.

In September my
parents decided that I could not afford to miss any more schooling, and so I
began grade 6 in a one-room schoolhouse in the next village called Volbu.
Volbu
lay across the lake that we could see from the Granli house, and could be
reached by walking or bicycling around it in the spring and fall, or crossing it
on skis or with a spark in the winter. In my dictionary the translation of a
spark is a kick sled. A spark is built like a chair on runners, and in order to
move it along, its rider has to stand behind it and kick it forward. It was a
very useful mode of transportation on icy or snow packed surfaces, and in those
days they were extensively used as baby carriages in the winter.

To my surprise
we went to school only every other day. By this time I understood the dialect of
the region perfectly, but now had to learn to write it as well. I loved school;
it lent some normalcy to my life.

News travels
fast in the countryside, and when I started school many of the villagers knew
that we were Jewish, although they really did not know what that meant. Nor do I
believe that any of them had ever met a Jew. We heard that there were now a few
Nazi sympathizers in the village, but it was thought that they would not pose
any danger, and in fact they did not. Gudrun, a very intelligent girl in my
grade, was the daughter of such a sympathizer and when one day she invited me
for dinner to her house it became a dilemma for us. Should I be allowed to go?
Was there a sinister motivation behind the invitation? In the end my parents
thought that it might do more harm than good not to accept the invitation.
Perhaps her parents had been curious about the Jewish girl that had become their
daughter’s schoolmate, never having met a Jewish person before? I must admit
that I was somewhat uneasy in their company, although they were very pleasant
and did not even ask any unusual questions. On my trip to Buahaugen in 1994 I
met a man, who actually remembered that he had gone to school with me, although
he was a few years younger than I. I asked him if he knew anything about Gudrun,
and he told me that she was now living in Lillehammer (the place where the
Winter Olympics were held some years ago) with her family, and that she had been
a teacher That was all the information he had about her.

My parents’
lives were difficult. They were totally isolated, with Nils and Alma as their
only company. My father was at times very depressed. Even though he would have
required regular medical check-ups, he did not dare to go to a doctor; neither
did we have dental care during those years, and it was my mother who had to pry
off the braces I wore on my teeth when the war broke out. To pass the time my
parents went for walks weather permitting, my mother knitted endlessly and they
read voraciously anything they could get hold of.

Although my
life was far from normal, I still had some kind of routine. I did my homework of
which there was a lot, on alternate days, my mother taught me how to knit, and I
too read a great deal. Alma taught me how to milk the cow, so I would from time
to time relieve her of this work. I actually liked to help her with her chores,
because she was always pleasant company. But nothing was more fun than the
Christmas preparations. The house filled up with the most delicious fragrance of
freshly baked cookies mixed with the smell of wood from the woodstove. Alma
cleaned house from morning till night, until everything sparkled. In the living
room the lights of the Christmas tree were blinking and the house looked
peaceful and pleasant. How I wished that I could be a part of all the
celebration surrounding Christmas! But of course I could not. I turned 12 years
old that winter, and for all intents and purposes I was now a Jewish ‘woman’,
and I was quite aware that I had different obligations.

That winter I
participated in skiing competitions, downhill and slalom. I was never any good
at it, because I was scared to fall. As a matter of fact, when I came down the
hills, some of my friends would exclaim: “Here comes the lensmann”, because
our Chief of Police was known to be slow. It upset me that I could not be better
at this popular sport, because I was always ambitious. But no matter how hard I
tried, I never succeeded in winning anything close to a medal. Cross country
skiing was a way of life in the village and never considered a ‘sport’.

So, while the
war was raging in Europe we lived in relative tranquility in our secluded
village. My parents were of course never at ease. Coupled with their concerns
about our own future were the worries about the family they had left behind in
Germany. Somehow they had found out that Tante Selma, Onkel Gustav and Elfriede
had arrived safely in the United States. I cannot recall how this news reached
us, but it was a great relief.

The Germans
were stationed in Fagernes and only communicated with the lensmann from time to
time. Now we were no longer permitted to own radios, but we did anyway and on
dark winter nights we would sit around the radio trying to tune into BBC London.
Sometimes we would hear Hitler speak, which totally infuriated my father and
would depress him for hours on end. The war was not going well.

We were happy
to return to Buahaugen in the summer of 1941. It had been a long and difficult
winter with the Granlis. From time to time Nils went on drinking binges and we
were always worried that he would one day talk too much when under the influence
of alcohol. ‘Our’ log cabin was waiting for us, and now that we knew what to
expect the summer seemed like a welcome reprieve.

That summer we
had a visitor. Mr. Meiranovsky arrived from Oslo to spend a week with us. What a
welcome surprise! For my parents it was a shot in the arm and their pleasure at
being with their longtime friend was palpable. But this was also a time for
reflection, and in my mind’s eye I can see my father and Mr. Meiranovsky
sitting on a large stone overlooking the Vannsjoe (lake) while my father warned
his friend of the danger that he, and for that matter, the entire Norwegian
Jewish population, would face if they remained in Norway. I happened to overhear
this conversation. He advised him to persuade his whole family to try to escape
to Sweden with him. Sweden was a neutral country and many Norwegians had already
crossed the borders between the two countries to escape the German occupation.
Like so many others Mr. Meieranovsky did not believe that any harm would come to
the Jews. They were Norwegians and the Germans would not dare to persecute them.
How wrong he was! That was the last time we saw Moritz Meiranovsky.

A neighboring
cottage in Buahaugen was owned by an attorney, Mr. Wellen, whose nephew Einar
came to visit each summer. My father often spoke to the elder Wellen and that
summer of 1941 he was also introduced to Einar, then 19 years old and a tall
gangly law student. Little did we know how important the young man my father met
that day would be for the future of our family.

In the fall of
1941 we moved back to the Granlis and an uneasy co-existence. I suppose that the
money we paid Nils each month was still an incentive for him to try to be civil
around us. Alma was as always kind and patient, but the tense situation in the
household aggravated by Nils’ heavy drinking took its toll on all of us.
Fortunately I was able to go to school and escape the situation at home every
other day. Even Christmas was no longer the same that year. Although we still
had plenty of food, rationing of sugar, flour, butter etc. was now in effect,
and curtailed the Christmas baking. Moreover, the prolonged occupation with no
end in sight affected all of us, and no one seemed to be in the mood to
celebrate.

By February
1942 it had become obvious to my parents that we would have to find a place of
our own to return to in the fall after spending the summer in Buahaugen. We were
now really afraid of Nils when he was inebriated and never knew what to expect.

My parents’
stay at the Granlis would come to an unexpected and abrupt end. In March of 1942
the lensmann paid us a visit with some very disturbing news. A German raid of
the villages in his district was imminent, and he urged us to leave for
Buahaugen immediately. This was a terrifying prospect. How would we be able to
manage all by ourselves? How would we get the necessary provisions? Nils Granli
promised to look for someone to bring us what we needed at regular intervals,
and we had no choice but believe him. So on a bright, sunny day we set out on
skis together with one of our neighbors, each of us carrying as many supplies as
we could.

It took several
hours of skiing through deep and heavy snow to reach the ‘seter’, but since
there were four of us we now made tracks in the snow. We could hardly recognize
Buahaugen when we arrived; the landscape looked like it was frozen in time. Our
neighbor helped us to carry wood inside and start a fire in the fireplace and
the stove to warm up the cottage. And then he left, and we were all alone in the
great expanse of snow and ice.

The brook was
frozen too, except for a small opening, where we were able to fetch drinking
water – on skis of course. When we needed water with which to wash ourselves
and our clothes we melted snow in a large pot. At night the cottage got freezing
cold, and it was usually my mother who got a fire going before my father and I
got up. We could not go outside without putting our skies on. It was almost
inconceivable that we could stay here all alone until the farmers came up for
the summer. But that is what we did – at least my parents.

After a few
days in the mountains I did something which was probably the most selfish thing
I have ever done in my whole life. My only excuse is that I was only 13 years
old. I told my parents that I wanted to go back to Rogne, stay with Nils and
Alma go to school. Their reaction was predictable. I was their only link to the
village in the event that something happened to my father, and now I wanted to
leave them completely on their own. However, in the end they let me go, provided
that I would return to the mountains every weekend with provisions.

So I set out on
my skies, retracing the tracks we had made a few days earlier. I felt free as a
bird – for a little while. Then I began to realize that I was now all alone in
the great snowy expanse I had to cover. What would happen if I fell and could
not get up? It was a frightening thought, one that I had to put quickly out of
my mind. Only when I arrived at the bend where the mountains and villages on the
other side of the Volbu lake came into view did I feel safe. I still had to ski
downhill before I got to the main road, but at least now I passed some farms and
knew that I was almost ‘home’.

Alma in
particular was happy to see me and have me stay with them. I went to school as
if everything was normal, but nothing was. The enormity of what I had done
weighed heavily on me, and every night I would look up at the sky and in the
direction of Buahaugen and wonder and worry how my parents were doing. This was
a most difficult time for the three of us. Every weekend, when I skied back up
to the mountains the loneliness of the slow climb, first through dense snowy
woods and then across the wilderness of the higher plateau almost overwhelmed
me, coupled with the fear of what I would find in Buahaugen. Moreover, I worried
from one week to the next that the trail would no longer be visible and that I
would have to rely on clearings in the woods and the frozen lakes to guide me.

When, years
later, I returned to Buahaugen with my son Marvin and my husband Steve, they
were incredulous when they saw the distance I had skied all by myself when I was
only 13 years old. But, although I was nervous and scared at the time, I knew
that I was just doing my duty, and every weekend when I saw my parents and I had
convinced myself that all was well, I was grateful and able to go on for another
week. By May, when it had become too difficult to ski because of the spring thaw
I left school and the Granlis and stayed at the ‘seter’.

I never saw
Nils again, and Alma only many, many years later, when in 1974 I traveled to
Norway on my own and took a tour to the fjords, where I had never been before. I
had told our guide, a young Norwegian student, a bit about my past. I don’t
think she ever had a tourist quite like me, a non-Norwegian who spoke Norwegian
perfectly. On the last day of the tour the guide told us that we would have
lunch in Fagernes. This was something I had not been prepared for, but I
immediately decided that while the rest of the group was having lunch, I would
somehow get to Rogne and back. As soon as the bus stopped I ran into the hotel
(the one and only) and asked for a taxi, only to be told that there were none
available that day. I was upset, and told the receptionist that I had to get to
Rogne and the reason why. A lady was standing next to me, and was so moved by my
story that she offered to drive me. In the end her teenagers did. As we came
closer to Rogne they kept asking me if I knew how far we still had to go, but
all I could tell them was that the house was facing the Volbu Lake.

Of course I
recognized the green house with its steep approach. I ran up the hill and
outside the house an elderly woman came to meet me. Knowing immediately that she
was Alma and not wanting to shock her I simply asked: “Do you remember a
family that lived here during the war?” She looked at me and with tears
filling her eyes she said: “You are not Margrit Rosenberg, are you?” That
made me cry to, and we embraced each other and could barely talk. In the few
minutes I was able to spend with Alma I found out that Nils had died a few years
earlier. Her daughter, the little girl I remembered from the wartime, also came
out of the house and was quickly told who I was. And then I had to leave. Two
teenagers were waiting in the car and a busload of people in Fagernes. What a
day this had been! That was the last time I saw Alma.

Somehow the
spring months of 1942 passed. If it was hard to maneuver outside with skis on in
March, it became if possible, even harder to manage without when the snow was
melting in May. Instead of skiing we were now wading through deep, loose and wet
snow and it was almost impossible to carry the buckets of water from the brook
up to the cabin. But the sun is strong in the mountains in springtime and by the
end of May all the snow had disappeared and life became easier. The last months
had, however, taken its toll. The three of us had suffered a serious set-back
psychologically, and our nerves were completely on edge. Even when the farmers
returned to their seters, Buahaugen somehow did not feel the same as in previous
years. Perhaps we knew subconsciously that this would be the last summer we
would spend in the mountains.

Two people
visited us that summer. An engineer from Nordiske arrived with the usual
envelope and stayed with us for a few days. He urged us to leave Norway as soon
as possible because the Germans had begun escalating the persecution of the
Jewish population in Oslo, Bergen and Trondheim. My father told him that we had
no connections to the underground in the area and without their help we would
not be able to escape. The engineer left with the promise that he would do
everything in his power to help us.

The second
visitor was Einar Wellen, our neighbor’s young nephew. He had the same message
as the engineer from Nordiske, and when he heard that we were literally trapped
in Rogne he mentioned that he had a friend in the Norwegian underground, and
that with his help he hoped to make our escape to Sweden possible.

During the
summer we were able to arrange to rent a furnished house at the outskirts of Rogne. Although it should have been a relief to live in larger quarters and on
our own, we were too nervous to appreciate it. I could no longer go to school;
it was considered too dangerous, and I made no effort to change my parents’
mind. We tried to stay as close to the house as possible, and only I did the
necessary shopping. In the winter, when new ration cards were issued, I traveled
quite a distance with our spark to pick them up, and with my heart pounding in
my chest, I asked for and received the ration cards. The engineer from Nordiske
appeared one day and brought us the terrible news of the deportation of the
Norwegian Jews. He promised to be back in January to fetch us and bring us to
safety. We did not hear from Einar Wellen. My father’s depression and violent
outbursts became more frequent. We felt caught in a trap with no way out. My
fourteenth birthday on December 27 was like any other day, and when I complained
that we did not even have a small celebration, my father completely lost his
temper. I had never seen him that furious and was really frightened when he
lifted up a chair and threw it against the wall. My poor father, his
helplessness and frustration needed an outlet, and my complaints triggered this
violent outburst.

We had almost
given up hope, when in the early morning hours of January 14, 1943 there was a
knock on the door. Fearing the worst I opened the door. Relief surged through me
when I recognized Einar Wellen with another young man, who turned out to be his
friend Arne Myhrvold. Both were exhausted and frozen, because they had spent the
night traveling, the last part on an open truck bed. The two young men wasted no
time in telling us that everything was arranged for our escape and that we would
be leaving early the following morning.. They advised us how to dress and what
to bring in our knapsacks. What I remember best from that day, was standing over
a kitchen sink, dying my hair blonde. Much depended on us and how we would be
able to handle the situation. We would travel by truck to a small place near Fagernes, where we would board a train headed for Oslo. We would leave the train
in a suburb of Oslo. A minister, recognizable by his clerical collar would meet
us at the station and take us to his home where we would stay until the next
transport to Sweden.

This plan
sounded easy enough, but we all knew that danger would be lurking in every
corner. The truck could easily be stopped for an inspection, and what was even
more likely was, that we would be asked for identification papers on the train,
but these were risks we had to take to save our lives.

While we were
preparing to leave there was another knock on the door. We stared in disbelief
at our new visitors, the engineer from Nordiske with a companion. They too had
come to rescue us. After some discussion it was decided that we follow Einar’s
and Arne’s plan, since that seemed to be the better one. Arne had been working
in the Norwegian underground movement for quite some time and had helped many
people to cross the border into Sweden via the route we were scheduled to take.
It was an unbelievable coincidence that these four people arrived the same day.

We left Rogne
at dawn the following day. Our truck made it without incident in time for the
train to Oslo. Einar and Arne traveled on the same train as we, but in a
different compartment, and in fact we did not see them again. My father hid
behind a newspaper, my mother and I tried to look as relaxed as possible. Not
one word was spoken between us. By some miracle we were not asked for
identification papers. When we reached the suburb of Oslo, where we were to meet
the minister, we got off the train and looked anxiously around. But he was
there, a car drove up immediately, and we were off to the minister’s home.

It was a lovely
house, a home such as I had not seen in a long time, beautifully furnished with
paintings on the wall and a piano in the corner of the living room. Coffee and
sandwiches were ready for us and we were shown to a room to rest. The minister
told us that we might have to spend the night there, because there might not be
a transport to the border that day. The apparent delay made us very nervous, but
at the end of the day a message was received that we should leave immediately.

We were driven
by car to a farm and shown into the barn, where some other people were sitting
in the hay waiting, including an elderly Jewish lady who had been rescued from a
hospital. It was then that we found out that the three of us were the last Jews
to leave Norway. When there were about 30 people in the barn, a truck drove up
and the Jewish lady and my parents and I were told to get in first, closest to
the cab. Eventually a tarpaulin was stretched across the truck bed and covered
with grass. My father immediately realized that he would not be able to stay in
such a confining space, because he was severely claustrophobic. He moved slowly
forward to the other end of the truck, where he could see some light through the
slits of the tarpaulin and disappeared from our view.

This was the
ultimate agony. Not to have my father close-by during these most dangerous hours
ahead, was unthinkable. I called “Vati, Vati” many times over, but there was
no reply. Now I began to imagine that he had gotten off the truck and been left
behind accidentally. The man next to me told me to be quiet as I would otherwise
endanger the whole transport. I was so nervous and upset that my whole body
shook and I could not keep my teeth from chattering. During the next couple of
hours I hardly thought about the danger we were in. All I could think of was,
whether my father was on the truck and what we would do if he were not.

Suddenly the
truck stopped, and so almost did my heart. Loud voices were heard outside, but
soon we were on our way again. All of us breathed an audible sigh of relief, but
not a word was spoken. When next time the truck came to a stop, we were told
that this was the end of our drive and that we would have to walk the rest of
the way to the Swedish border. A guide would accompany us. Slowly the truck bed
emptied out, and when at last I saw my father and put my hand into his, I was
oblivious to the danger we were in; all that mattered was that my father was
with us. We walked through the snowy woods, quickly and in absolute silence.
Suddenly a small cabin appeared as if from nowhere with lights blinking through
its windows. And then we heard: “Welcome to Sweden, come inside”, and saw
the outlines of two Swedish soldiers coming towards us.

Our long
odyssey, beginning in Oslo on April 9, 1940 had ended.

Einar Wellen
and Arne Myhrvold eventually had to leave Norway too and escaped to Sweden.
Einar married Marit in 1946 and they had three children, two sons and a
daughter. He became a well-known lawyer and prominent businessman. In 1996 he
received a medal from Yad Vashem for the role he had played in saving my life.
That day, April 16, 1996, Yom Hashoa (Holocaust Remembrance Day), was one of the
most important days of my life. It had taken me one and a half years to have my
application for Einar’s medal approved, and when I stood in the very same
synagogue in which my husband and I got married nearly 47 years earlier, and
spoke to a full synagogue, I felt that my life had come full circle. Einar’s
name is now engraved in the garden of the Righteous Gentiles at Yad Vashem in
Jerusalem. Einar died in 1998. His wife Marit and I are still in constant touch.

Through a most
regrettable oversight on my part, Arne Myhrvold’s efforts were never
recognized. Arne became an engineer and C.E.O. of a large company. He and his
wife Reidunn still live in the suburbs of Oslo. Until Einar’s death he and
Arne remained close friends.

When I was in
Oslo in 1996 a member of the Jewish Community, Ken Harris, asked me if I
remembered anything about the driver of the truck that took us to the Swedish
border. He had found out that this driver was still alive and would be entitled
to be recognized as a Righteous Gentile. So far no one had been able to identify
him with certainty. I really did not remember anything about this man, but
offered to go and see him if he felt it would serve a purpose. I was given his
name, Torleif Halvorsen, and his phone number. His wife Kirsten answered the
phone and when she heard what the call was about, she was surprised and very
happy.

The following
morning I sat on the train headed for a small place called Askim. Kirsten and
Torleif met me at the station and drove me to their home in their van. Torleif
seemed sick, coughing continuously and it was obvious that he was ill at ease.
After a warm lunch he offered to take me to the farm where we had gathered in
1943. During the drive he became a great deal more talkative with Kirsten
filling in the blank spaces. It turned out that none of the people he had
transported in his truck had ever taken the trouble to contact him after the
war. He was extremely touched that I had made the effort, and I really did not
have the heart to tell him that I was not at all sure that I had been one of his
‘passengers’. What I did realize though, was that he was in no condition to
go through any kind of ceremony, and that if nothing else, I had provided him
with a pleasant memory. Torleif died a few years after my visit, and I have
since lost touch with Kirsten.

Sweden

The soldiers’
cottage was warm and equipped with several bunks. My parents and I were assigned
to a bunk each and my father immediately fell into an exhausted sleep. When one
of the soldiers wanted to give him a cup of coffee, I motioned to him not to
wake him up. I, although just as tired as everyone else, simply could not fall
asleep. Too much had happened in a short time and it was impossible for me to
relax.

The following
morning we were transported to a small city called Alingsås, where we were
quarantined, I believe in an old school. Here we met a few other Jewish people
from Oslo, who had recently escaped to Sweden, among them Gerd and Charles
Philipsohn and their mother. Gerd was a year younger than I and always clinging
to her mother’s skirts and was soon rumored to be a spoilt young girl. I also
met four Czech girls, who had lived in Norway the last few years, been adopted
by Norwegians and converted to Christianity. Under Hitler’s laws they were
still Jewish. They had lost their biological parents and now they were separated
from their adoptive parents too, and they were quite lost. All they had was each
other.

While we were
in quarantine we were allocated some clothing and examined by doctors. The
doctor who examined my father was astonished when he saw the small but deep
wound in his back, and recommended that he be operated at once, to close the
wound.

About two weeks
later we moved to a rooming house in Alingsås. Once again my parents and I
lived in one room. Here we had to share the bathroom and the kitchen with many
other people. The two persons I remember from this place were Fröken (Miss)
Potovsky and her mother, who had a different name. The two were also refugees,
but seemed to have been living at the rooming house for some time. Fröken
Potovsky had a piano in her room and played Chopin incessantly – almost from
morning till night. The mother was her daughter’s greatest admirer and let it
be known that she had been a concert pianist in her native country (I believe
Poland). Even today, when I hear Chopin’s music I always think of Ms. Potovsky.

My father
decided to heed the doctor’s advice and have the surgery he had suggested. The
prospect of being operated in a small town in Sweden, after all he had been
through, was extremely stressful for him. My mother knew that she would not
leave his side during his hospital stay, and that she would be unable to look
after me during that time, so a solution had to be found.

A Jewish
orphanage had been established in Alingsås for refugee children who needed a
place to stay. I fit into that category, albeit temporarily. Not all the
children here had lost their parents, but for reasons of their own they were
unable to look after them. Living with so many children was a new experience for
me, but one I enjoyed. The atmosphere in the ‘home’ was cheerful thanks to
the leadership of the wonderful person in charge, Nina. Nina had a heart of
gold, she scolded where it was needed, she comforted when tears were flowing,
she intervened when disagreements erupted, in short she was on the go from
morning till night. Nina was a psychologist by profession and herself a refugee.
Most of the children had come from a Jewish orphanage in Oslo that was
established a few years before the outbreak of the war. When the persecution of
the Jews escalated in Germany, some parents chose to be parted from their
children rather than risking their lives and sent them to Norway where they
thought they would be safe. The Oslo Jewish community had supported the
orphanage. Eventually the Norwegian underground smuggled the children across the
border to Sweden.

Two of the
children I remember best are Ruth Elias and Josef Fenster. Ruth was a cute young
girl my age, who had been sent from Germany to Sweden together with her younger
brother. After spending several years in various foster homes, Ruth was sent to
the orphanage in Alingsaas, while her brother was in a ‘boys’ home’ in a
different Swedish town. When I met Ruth she had gone through so much hardship
that, as a result, she had become a difficult teenager. At times Nina had to be
very strict with her. That same year, when she was only 14 years old, Ruth began
working in a photo shop in Alingsås.

Ruth’s
parents were deported from Germany to Theresienstadt concentration camp, where
her mother remained until she was liberated in 1945. Her father had been sent to
Auschwitz, but died on the transport. When Ruth was reunited with her mother,
the two did not get along – 6 years’ separation was impossible to overcome.
Eventually she met her husband Amek, also a survivor, in Stockholm. The two
immigrated to Canada more than 50 years ago and live in Toronto. Amek became a
successful salesman, and although Ruth is scarred for life by her past, she
succeeded in overcoming most of her old fears and lives a productive life as a
wife, mother and grandmother. We met again last summer after having been out of
touch for more than eighteen years.

Josef Fenster
was a quiet boy, about my age. He was also born in Germany and was one of the
children who had been in the orphanage in Oslo. His parents died in
concentration camp. When the war was over he returned to Oslo, became a baker
and tried to blend into the Norwegian Jewish society, which took him many years.
The Norwegian Jews, although those who survived the war had been refugees
themselves in Sweden, still felt somewhat superior to those whose background was
different than theirs. Josef is one of the most generous people I know, in terms
of giving of himself. He never married, is now retired and devotes all his free
time to the Jewish community. He has become one of its esteemed and prominent
members. I have met Josef each time I have visited Norway, and saw him last on
my visit in 2002.

While I easily
adjusted to the routine at the ‘home’ my father had his operation. On my
visits to the hospital I was shocked to see him pale and weak and feared for his
future. After a week he was able to return to the rooming house, but it took
five more weeks for him to recover and - the operation had been unsuccessful.
When my father was strong enough I returned to my parents. I had spent six weeks
at the orphanage.

The Salomons
were old friends of my parents. They were originally from Frankfurt am Main, a
city close to Wächtersbach. The Jews in Frankfurt were generally orthodox, and
this is the environment Hermann Salomon came from. His marriage to a beautiful
non-Jewish divorcee shocked his parents and the whole Frankfurt Jewish
community, despite the fact that she converted to Judaism. When we arrived in
Sweden, the Salomons had been living in Stockholm for several years and were
well established. They had no children. Now my father contacted them, and they
were so happy to hear from us that soon afterwards they came to Alingsås to see
us. Their visit was a shot in the arm for my parents. I too was included in the
warmth of their reunion and when the Salomons asked me to call them ‘Onkel’
and ‘Tante’ I readily agreed, although I had always been reluctant to make
strangers an uncle or an aunt. But the Salomons seemed like family and became
Tante Ruth and Onkel Hermann without any reluctance on my part. Before they left
they not only loaned us money but offered to help us with whatever else might
become necessary for our relocation in Sweden. They also invited me to come to
visit them in Stockholm whenever possible.

My father had
advised Nordiske Destillationsverker in Oslo of our safe arrival in Alingsaas,
and they suggested that he get in touch with their branch in Malmö, a city
located in Southern Sweden. On the request of the head office, a position was
created for my father at Nordiske in that city, and after packing up our meager
belongings we went to Malmoe by train, happy to leave Alingsås and the rooming
house behind.

It did not take
us long to settle in Malmö. We rented a nice, modern one bedroom apartment in a
quiet neighborhood and bought some second hand furniture. I was given the small
bedroom, my parents slept on a hide-a-bed in the living room. Life assumed some
normalcy. My father went to work in the mornings, my mother did the grocery
shopping in new and strange stores and took care of the apartment and I went to
school.

Since I had
missed about five months of schooling again, and my education in Rogne had left
much to be desired, I was quite nervous about starting yet another school. The
Norwegian and Swedish spoken languages (as well as the Danish language) are
quite similar. The written languages are another matter entirely. Going from
Norwegian as it was spoken and written in Oslo, to the ‘new Norwegian’ in Rogne, and now to Swedish was not easy. The school in Malmö to which I was
admitted without losing a year, was a vocational high school, where I studied
not only the usual subjects, but was also taught typing and shorthand. One of my
teachers, a lady in her fifties, took pity on me and volunteered to tutor me in
Swedish. Since I seemed to have a certain gift for languages I was soon able to
express myself fairly well in Swedish. It did not take long before I had caught
up with my contemporaries and even my written Swedish was acceptable.

Actually I very
much enjoyed the typing and shorthand lessons. I felt this gave me something
practical to fall back on in case it should be needed in future. Despite the
fact that my father’s health was manageable again, I always feared that
something would happen to him. The wound in his back had opened up again soon
after the surgery in Alingsås, and my mother continued to tend to it. When she
wanted to teach me to cleanse and bandage the wound, she was not too successful
however. I was too squeamish. Although things were finally going quite well for
us, I was always nervous and apprehensive. I suppose the past had caught up with
me.

The Jewish
community in Malmö was small. Rabbi Berlinger was in charge of the synagogue
and the Sunday morning ‘cheder’ (Jewish school). My Jewish education had
been put on hold in April 1940 and it was important for my father that I resume
where I had left off. So instead of enjoying some free time on Sundays I was off
to ‘cheder’. I immediately loved the Jewish environment and felt completely
at ease with the other children there. Ultimately I became friendly with the
Rabbi’s three children, a daughter, Yetta, a year older than I, a son exactly
my age and a younger daughter. It was Yetta who became my special friend. Often
on Shabbat, after attending synagogue, I would be invited at the Berlinger home
for lunch, and once again Orthodox Judaism held a certain attraction for me. But
I never acted on it.

Malmö is a
port city and has wonderful beaches. The sand is almost white and the beach is
kept spotlessly clean. It was here that I finally learnt to swim properly. A
long wooden pier led from the beach to two large seawater swimming pools that
were separated by a wall but not covered. One pool was for men and the other for
women, and everyone swam in the nude. Although I was rather shy I loved the
sensation of swimming without a bathing suite, and gladly paid the few öre
(Swedish pennies) admission.

It takes about
two hours by boat to reach Copenhagen from Malmö, and on a clear day one can
see the skyline of Copenhagen from the beaches in Malmö. Knowing that the
Germans were in such close proximity always gave me an eerie and unsettled
feeling.

A new wave of
refugees began to arrive in Malmö, Danish Jews from Copenhagen and its
surrounding areas. For the most part they made their escape in Danish fishing
boats. The fishermen stowed their Jewish passengers in the holds of their boats
and left Denmark under the guise of darkness. Many people were saved in this
manner. My parents became friendly with several couples, friendships that in
many instances lasted all their lives. Stories were told of the heroism of the
Danish people during the German occupation, and how even the King protected his
Jewish citizens. Only a small number of Danish Jews were deported to
Theresienstadt concentration camp, of whom very few perished due to the King’s
influence and interference.

It should be
mentioned here that Theresienstadt was not an extermination camp. The Germans
called it a ‘model’ camp, where no one starved or was mistreated, which was
of course exaggerated. Neither did they disclose that many of those who did come
to Theresienstadt were subsequently transported to Auschwitz and other
extermination camps. When my husband and I were in Czechoslovakia in 1992 we
visited Theresienstadt, or Terezin, which is located about one and a half hour’s
drive from Prague. We were a diverse group of people, two young men from as far
away as Australia, but whatever our origin, Theresienstadt would never be
forgotten by any of us.

Returning from
synagogue on a Friday evening, my father brought home a guest. Jack Ganz was a
Norwegian Jew, in his early forties, a small man with a pronounced nose in his
narrow face and an easy friendly smile. He was a bachelor and became a steady
fixture in our home. Both my parents enjoyed his company. He was a most helpful
and generous person, who would remain in our lives for years to come.

One day a
letter arrived in the mail, addressed to me. To my great surprise it was from
Sigmund. He was in a German prisoner of war camp and had obtained his brother
John’s address in Sweden through the efforts of the Red Cross. John, in turn,
had sent Sigmund our address. Now my personal ‘war effort’ began. Many
letters between Sigmund and me crossed the oceans, and when we met at the end of
the war he told me that the arrival of a letter from me always made that day a
brighter one.

In the spring
of 1944 I went to visit John and Beks in Norrkjöping. Beks was pregnant with
Rene and quite unwell, but we still made the most of the few days we had
together. Also that same spring I visited Tante Ruth and Onkel Hermann in
Stockholm. It was Onkel Hermann who became my guide. We visited museums,
beautiful parks and dined in fancy restaurants, all of which was a novelty for
me. Onkel Hermann made a deep impression on me with his knowledge of art and his
interest in anything and everything around him. Although older than my father he
appeared much more youthful and except for my father he would be the most
important person in my life for some time to come.

When school was
over in the spring of 1944 I decided to make use of my new skills, typing and
stenography and began looking for work. I was certainly not a fast typist and my
shorthand left a lot to be desired, so I was overjoyed when I was offered a job
in a small office. It turned out that all I had to do was to answer an
occasional phone call, and I was left alone in the little narrow office, from
the time I arrived in the morning until 4 o’clock in the afternoon. A
typewriter was my only company. Two weeks later I had to admit to myself that
this venture had been unsuccessful and I left. An ad in the newspaper attracted
my attention. A small company was looking for a Girl Friday and I could not
believe my luck when I was hired. The office consisted of only two people, the
owner of the company and his secretary. In my opinion the secretary, a young
woman with an engagement ring on her finger, was the most efficient and smart
woman I had ever met, and I was completely in awe of her.

Things went
really well at the office for a while, until one day I committed a blunder I
have never forgotten. I was handed a stack of letters to mail, one of which was,
however, a registered letter and had to be taken to the post office. Instead, I
mailed all the letters in a mailbox, and when I realized what I had done, all I
could do was stare at the mailbox hoping against hope that it would regurgitate
the registered letter. I ran back to the office and confessed to my boss what
had happened, expecting to be fired on the spot. But he calmly went to the post
office and the letter was retrieved without any problems. I became, if possible,
even more eager to please, and at the end of the summer I regretfully left my
first employ and the two people who had shown me such kindness and
consideration.

The
construction of a beautiful theatre complex had recently been completed in
Malmö. I saw my very first play on an outing with my class and loved it. To my
great surprise Yetta’s brother asked me one day if I wanted to go with him to
a performance of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. My first date! It would also
be my last with him.

At the end of
1944 it was obvious that the Germans were losing the war, and in the spring of
1945 it was only a question of time when Hitler would have to capitulate. The
allied forces were beginning to land in Germany and rumors of concentration
camps and atrocities abounded. But nothing could have prepared us for what we
were about to witness.

In April 1945
we were told by the teacher who had tutored me in Swedish, that we would be
relocated for the remainder of the school year and that we would be going to
school in shifts. Our school would be used to house concentration camp prisoners
who would be liberated shortly through the efforts of Sweden’s Count Folke
Bernadotte. At the same time the teacher expressed her regret that the
graduating class would be unnecessarily inconvenienced by this move, and that
she found the whole thing grossly unfair. I was shocked. This woman who I
thought was so kind, had no compassion at all for the unfortunate people who
were about to come to Sweden! In anticipation of their arrival many schools in
Malmö were converted into temporary hospitals, and the Malmö museum, a
reconstructed fort, located in a lovely park and surrounded by a moat, was
prepared to house the more or less healthy survivors.

And then they
started to come. The museum was soon filled to capacity with Jewish men and
women of many origins. Few were from Germany. For my parents it became a daily
ritual to go to the museum to make inquiries about our family, but no one had
any information. One day they spoke to a young boy from Cologne. Although
conversation across the moat was difficult, they were able to find out that he
was sixteen years old and the sole survivor of his family, except for an older
brother who was in the United States. My father suggested that, since we were
the same age, it might benefit the young boy to have a friend visit, and from
then on until the end of his quarantine I went to see him every day. Even though
we had to shout across the moat we managed to become good friends and when he
was able to leave the museum he came to our apartment several times before
leaving for the United States.

Although Sweden
had remained neutral, many Swedes had secretly sided with the Germans. Not so
secret were the transports of German weapons that were allowed to go through
Sweden. Although the Jewish population was negligible many of the Swedes were
anti-Semites, something I experienced first hand and in a very unpleasant way. I
was visiting my friend and shouting across the moat in German as usual, when a
man passed by and yelled at me that I was nothing but a whore. I was in shock
and too young to have the presence of mind to react. Now I had one more thing to
worry about. Would the man be there the next day? He never came back.

In the meantime
the schools too began to fill up. In the schoolyards where kids had been playing
until recently, pitiful victims of Hitler’s concentration camps walked
aimlessly about. The bony hands reaching for the bread and chocolate that people
brought them, the emaciated faces staring through the fences begging for food,
the fights that sometimes erupted over a piece of bread – it all made me
almost physically ill. Yet I returned every free minute with more bread and
chocolate that turned out to do more harm than good. Soon it became strictly
forbidden to bring food from the outside, as many of the former prisoners had
gotten seriously ill from the unaccustomed caloric intake. They had been
starving too long and their digestive system could only handle small portions of
food at one time that were now apportioned by the doctors in charge. I cannot
describe the deep sorrow and despair I felt that spring of 1945 and even now, a
lifetime later, I can still feel the pain of the 16-year old I was then.

Once the former
prisoners were healthy enough they were released from the different quarantines
in Malmö. The majority headed for the larger cities in Sweden, Stockholm and
Göteborg (Gothenburg), in search of work. Ultimately many immigrated to Canada
and the United States, but no matter how their lives turned out, the memories of
the horrors of the camps would always be with them.

As we know, the
Germans finally capitulated on May 7, 1945. My parents went out that night to
spend the evenings with friends, but I was in no mood to celebrate. The events
of the past weeks had depressed me so much that all I wanted was to crawl into
bed. Since we were living on the ground floor, I always rolled down my blind
before getting undressed. That evening I did not. A face in my window almost
paralyzed me. I screamed. He ran, but he had seen me partially undressed and I
felt completely violated. I never told my parents.

The end of
World War II also signaled the end of our life in Malmö as well as a new
beginning. We had come to Sweden as refugees and could, therefore, only stay as
long as there was a need for it. Both Norway and Denmark had been liberated, and
all of us who had settled in Sweden during the war had to return to our
respective countries. The good news was that Nordiske in Oslo were anxiously
waiting for my father to resume his position as director of their paint
division, but the bad news was that they had only been able to find a small
studio apartment for us. That was the best they could do under the
circumstances. Since we had been living in Malmö for more than two years my
mother, in particular, became busy winding up our affairs, having our furniture
shipped to Oslo to be placed in storage and packing up our personal belongings.
Finally, in the fall of 1945 we said good-bye to all our friends and went by
train to Oslo, the city we had left so long ago, on April 9, 1940.

Like any other
country that had been occupied by the Germans, Norway had been left in shambles.
Rationing of certain foods was still in place and the housing shortage was
critical. Only two years after we returned to Norway were we finally able to
leave our studio apartment. Nordiske had once again lent a helping hand by
paying for a long lease for a newly constructed apartment in one of the suburbs
of Oslo. Our new home positively rejuvenated my parents, but it would not be for
long. On November 11, 1947 my father passed away suddenly. He was only 57 years
old.

That same year
a contingent of about 400 Jews arrived from Europe on the invitation of the
Norwegian government. The intention was to replace those that had fallen victim
to the concentration camps. Among the 400 immigrants was my future husband
Stefan Szilagyi, a survivor from Hungary. We met in November 1948 and got
married in Oslo in December 1949. While we were engaged, Stefan decided to
change his name to a more Norwegian sounding name and one that was easier to
pronounce. Stenge (which means ‘to close’ in Norwegian) was acceptable to
the authorities.

Stefan and I
immigrated to Canada in 1951 and our first child, a boy. was born in 1954. That
year my mother decided that she did not want to be separated from her grandchild
and moved to Montreal. Our son Marvin was followed by a little girl, Helen, in
1957.

My mother
adjusted well to life in Canada. She learnt to speak and read English, became
part of a circle of German Jews, played bridge and traveled all over the world.
She died in 1980 at the age of 79.

Stefan and I
are the grandparents of 4 grandsons and 2 granddaughters. Our oldest grandson
Motti is married to Sara. They live in Israel.

In my speech at
the medal ceremony in Oslo in honor of Einar Wellen I said: “… The passage
of the years serves to illustrate what it means to save one life. Because of
Einar I survived the Holocaust and was able to bring two children into the
world, who in turn have all together six children, eight Jewish lives in two
generations….”